


The Red Book

by stewardess



Category: A Dangerous Method (2011), Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe-Fantasy, Alternate universe-historical, First Time, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, M/M, McFassy, Mental Health Issues, Sex Pollen, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stewardess/pseuds/stewardess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of the First World War, Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender) goes to an English country house, enters a wardrobe, and meets a faun (James McAvoy).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eyebrowofdoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyebrowofdoom/gifts).



### 

_**The Private Diary of Doctor Carl Jung  
POW Internment Camp, Switzerland  
September, 1916** _

I barely had time to review the paperwork before the latest prisoner, a British army lieutenant, was ushered into my office.

A letter from a British regimental chaplain requested the lieutenant be treated for "shell shock," not classed as a deserter. The plea was supported by a report from a Swiss sergeant, who found the lieutenant blundering in the Alps near the French border.

According to the sergeant, the British lieutenant had raved he was on the trail of an enormous lion, which he claimed would destroy the world if mankind continued to make a mess of things. When questioned further, the lieutenant said the lion lived in the mountains. That was all the sergeant could get out of him.

I looked up from my desk to observe the prisoner, and was shocked to find I knew him.

"Kirke!" I exclaimed.

It took some time for Kirke to place me.

"Doctor Jung," he said. "You stayed at my house once."

"I'm afraid I cannot offer you equivalent hospitality here," I said, relieved he recognized me. "The terms of Switzerland's neutrality are that we must take into custody all foreign combatants who stray across our borders. Your government can negotiate your release, but most likely you will remain here as a prisoner of war until hostilities have ended."

I did not mention that, if he had been a deserter, I would have fought to keep him, as the British would have shot him within hours of getting him back.

"So we're all mixed up here together?" Kirke asked. "German, Austrian, French, the whole lot?"

"Yes," I said. "But you will only see other Englishmen. The camp is segregated by nationality."

Because I have made several trips to America and Britain, and was presumably fluent in English, I was chosen to treat soldiers in the British section of the internment camp. And by chosen I mean drafted by my government. I am also a prisoner.

"How tiresome," Kirke said. "How does everyone pass the time?"

"I encourage the men to enroll in university correspondence courses and complete a degree," I said. "Since you have two degrees already, you will be more of a challenge."

"I don't want to make things hard for you," Kirke said. "I will take up any occupation you suggest."

Kirke's tone was mild, eager to please. He was passing through the first stage of being a POW: gratefully stunned to be away from the constant bombardment and the reek of death. The stage might last hours, or months. Until it was over, his real condition would lie hidden from me.

"I recommend an art course, then," I said.

Kirke looked slightly disappointed. "You'll want me to make pictures about the war, I expect. What if I only want to paint duck ponds and the like?"

"The subject may be whatever you wish," I said. "With or without a duck pond, it shall be about the war."

"You're as clever as ever, I see," Kirke said.

While his voice was still mild, the flash in his eyes announced his gratitude stage would be short-lived.

"If I am, then I have you to thank for that, Professor," I said.

Kirke froze, and for a moment he was simply _gone_ , back in an internal hell. I guessed his men had called him _professor_ as an affectionate nickname; I resolved not to use the title again until he was better.

Kirke was taken away by a guard. He will be given a place to sleep, food to eat, and then he, like all the other men, will be _stored_ , as if he were a book no one wished to read any longer.

I have struggled to help the prisoners. Helping them helps me survive this dark time. I owe all of them a debt. But I owe Kirke more than the usual one. If I had never met him, I would not be treating patients; I would be one.

To tell this story, I must begin at the beginning – three years ago, in England – so I will turn to my private diary from that time. 

This is the tale of how I met Professor Digory Kirke, and how I came to acquire the Red Book, without which I would have lost my sanity.

### 

_**The Private Diary of Doctor Carl Jung  
Fledge House, England  
August, 1913** _

I am unexpectedly in the English countryside for a few days. It happened like this. 

For the good of the International Psychoanalytic Association, it fell to me to give a talk to the British Psycho-Medical Society. Since Freud never varies from his routine of taking a holiday in August (Italy again this year), I came alone.

Which was a tremendous relief. My personal relationship with Freud is over. 

I extended an olive branch to Freud last winter, but soon realized he had no intention of accepting it. The goodwill we forged in November was gone by January. Nevertheless, we agreed to be professionally cordial. 

Our infrequent letters deal chiefly with the confounded mess Freud landed us in with a publisher. Freud agreed to make up half our losses, but even that left me irritable, because it seemed he sought my praise for handling a matter wholly his responsibility in the first place.

I had looked forward to being in England on my own, free of Freud's insecurities, so I arrived four days ahead of schedule. My hope to remain unmolested was immediately dashed, however. Freud's followers have come to London for the conference, and they dogged my every move at Claridge's.

This afternoon, I took refuge in the hotel's bar, where I struck up a conversation with several young Englishmen I overheard discussing Greek myth. They introduced themselves as Wilson, Luxford, and Banks. I took them for members of the Psycho-Medical Society.

When they heard what I had to say about Norse legend, they called another of their party over, a Professor Kirke, who, like them, is in his mid-twenties at most.

In spite of their youth, they had a pedantic air. It was clear they thought me nothing more than a talented amateur. I soon realized they were not members of the medical society, but distinguished scholars in Classical and Medieval literature. By their standard, I am indeed an amateur in folklore and myth.

Wilson, Luxford, and Banks are in love with their own cleverness, and without Kirke there I would not have remained long in their company. In contrast, Kirke, by far the most brilliant of the group, is modest and unassuming.

The four men were at Oxford together, and meet regularly to continue their friendship. They usually gather at a small tavern, but today for some reason they decided on Claridge's, which, being new, expensive, and (in their view) tasteless, was an odd choice. But by the time we had consumed two glasses of champagne each, we were content to proclaim it a fortunate coincidence; meeting them, I said, must be my destiny. 

Kirke has read my work _On the Psychology and Pathology of So-Called Occult Phenomena_ , and he won my heart by confessing he was currently "struggling" (his word, not mine) with Freud's _Totem and Taboo_ (the German edition, I presume; it has not yet been translated into English).

It was probably not necessary to give so full an account of our conversation, but I felt I must, because otherwise my decision may seem inexplicable: when Kirke invited me to join him and his friends at his home in the country, I readily agreed. It is three days until the conference; I do not want to spend the time dodging Viennese analysts.

So, after a two-hour train journey and a ride in a pony cart, here I am at Kirke's ancient home in the country, Fledge House.

I may repent of my rashness. The grounds and furnishings of Fledge House are splendid, but the interior is as cold as a meat locker. 

There has been rain every day for a week. I have been informed the coal fire in my bedroom will not be lit, due to a lack of manpower; it is the period of summer when most of the household staff is bringing in the harvest. If I desire warmth, I must sit in the drawing room, which benefits from a southern exposure, and the only maintained fire in the house.

To avoid freezing, I stayed in the drawing room until nine this evening. The five of us found a common topic in Pompeii (we have all toured it extensively), but soon we returned to my favorite subject, myth.

I eventually retired to my room and bed upstairs, where I am now, the blankets heaped around me, as I make this entry. Fledge House does not have electricity laid on yet, so light comes from a single candle in an old-fashioned holder.

A young housekeeper had to show the way to my room; I am not sure I could find it again on my own. Along the way, we passed rooms of paintings and statuary, rooms entirely empty, and a gorgeous library. Ignoring the housekeeper's obvious impatience, I gave the books a swift examination.

The drawing room was updated in the 1880s or 1890s, but up here, in my bedroom on the second floor (or perhaps the third; we went up and down so many flights of stairs I lost track), it is still the seventeenth century.

The windowsills reveal the walls are over two feet thick; no wonder the feeble sun is powerless to warm the interior. Fledge House's ancient timber frame projects into the room, giving it a fairytale appearance. The only article in the room that is new is a large, handsome wardrobe.

And now to sleep.

* * *

_**The Private Diary of Doctor Carl Jung  
Fledge House, England  
August, 1913** _

I had a restless night, but I was rewarded with an intriguing dream. My dream began this way:

Driven by the cold, I rose from bed and went to the wardrobe, where I hoped to find an extra blanket; there were none, but there were many fur coats. Alas, not one of the coats fit me; all were too small. I pushed past the first row of coats into a second, and then into a third. Before I knew it, I had stepped inside the wardrobe. 

It was then I suspected I was dreaming, but instead of waking up, I forged ahead, and was not surprised when I experienced difficulty in moving my limbs (as frequently happens in dreams).

Soon I was nearly knee-deep in snow, and still I toiled forward, abruptly leaving the coats behind and entering a fir wood. The trees were encased in feathery ice, turned silver by a cloud-obscured setting sun.

In the fading light, I saw a warm glow ahead, and went toward it until I reached a small clearing, where there was a solitary English-style street lamp – gas, although those I saw in London were electrified.

In spite of the beauty of the scene, I shivered. It was as frigid there as it is in Fledge House.

In the dream, I was dressed precisely as I had been when I had gone to bed: in the modern two-piece navy-blue silk pajamas I purchased for my stay in London. They were perfectly adequate at Claridge's, with its new central heating system, but at Fledge House I would have been better off in an old-fashioned flannel nightshirt.

Fortunately, in my dream, I had taken the precaution of wrapping a blanket about my shoulders after getting out of bed. I also wore wool felt slippers with thin leather soles. My feet soon burned with the cold, however, a sensation familiar to me when I was a child and walked to school in the winter with holes in my shoes.

In spite of the discomfort, I stubbornly resolved to remain in my snowy dream world as long as possible. Waking up was inevitable; there was no need to hurry it.

Never before have I had a dream so rich, so detailed. And the symbolism!

The fur coats possibly represent my home life in Zurich (luxurious, but _not fitting_ , i.e. not comfortable). The London street lamp may be a reference to the talk I will give on Tuesday to the English (to _illuminate_ them). The lamp being gas instead of electric may signify my trepidation about their old-fashioned views.

I was still pleasantly occupied in deciphering the dream's meaning when I heard a noise to my left.

I turned around, and caught sight of something hiding behind a tree. 

I reminded myself it was _my_ dream, so there was no reason to be alarmed, and strode forward to confront the newest manifestation of my unconscious.

Clearly I have been spending too much time on Classical myth, for it was a faun!

The faun was like a man from the waist up; below the waist he was covered with brown fur. His legs ended in small hooves, and he had large, animal-like ears. Above his ears were two horns.

My description may make the faun sound disagreeable, but he was no more frightening than a kitten. He was young, around twenty years of age. The hair on his head was curly and long, and he had large blue eyes. The top of his head did not quite reach my shoulders.

Improbably, he was wearing a red (my favorite color) scarf, carrying an umbrella, and had several parcels wrapped up in paper. 

"You are the most marvelous thing I have ever come up with," I said, smiling.

"What are you?" the faun asked, his voice somewhat nervous. "A young giant, perhaps?"

"Excuse me," I said. "But you are _my_ vision, and therefore you must account to me. It is a rule I have: never let a manifestation of my unconscious escape without explanation. Why do you appear to me in the form of a faun?"

"What other form would I possibly take?" Apparently over his nervousness, the faun smiled charmingly. "My name is Tumnus."

Tumnus had dropped several parcels; I helped him pick them up.

"Tumnus. An odd name," I said. "Ah, I have it. I must have derived it from Tammuz, the Sumerian shepherd-god, from whom we get the word autumn."

"I beg your pardon," Tumnus said, still smiling charmingly. "But I am named after my father."

He glanced down at my poorly shod feet, which appeared to fascinate him.

"Would you like to have tea with me?" Tumnus asked. "My home is warm, and quite close."

As he spoke, he waggled his eyebrows up and down, and his ears moved slightly with them. The effect was enchanting, and I laughed.

"I must say the uncomfortable beds in English country houses produce the best dreams. Yes, I would love to have tea with you, Tumnus."

Assisting the faun with his parcels, I followed him through the woods to a rocky cliff face, in which there was a sturdy wooden door. On the other side of the door was the faun's snug cave home (clearly a womb symbol).

From a dream point of view, the interior was disappointing. Except for its cave shape, it was an ordinary (if pleasantly old-fashioned) parlor, with comfortable furniture and a large hearth. From the point of view of one who had been standing in snow, however, I appreciated it.

Tumnus added logs to the hearth, and encouraged me to remove my soaked slippers and sit by the fire. Instead of tea, we had wine, bread, and cheese. He placed my slippers on the hearth to dry, and fussed over me with such consideration I would have been embarrassed if I hadn't known he was a manifestation of my unconscious.

Or was he? Perhaps he is part of the _collective unconscious_ , a concept Freud has been reluctant to accept, mistakenly thinking I am touting mysticism, when all I am arguing is that there must be a reason humanity has so many myths and legends in common. And that reason will of course be _scientific_.

No one regards it as unscientific of ancient man to have worshipped the sun and moon. It was simply what ancient man could understand. A man who claimed the sun was a flaming chariot crossing the sky would be laughed at now, as he should be, but I rather think our current understanding of the human psyche is no more sophisticated than early man's grasp of the solar system.

But back to the dream.

Once I was no longer shivering, and was quite comfortable, Tumnus said, "You haven't told me who you are, young giant."

"I studied medicine at the University of Basel," I began, then laughed at the absurdity of discussing my professional credentials with a faun. "I'm not a giant. I'm an ordinary human being, that is all."

"Human? Do you mean to say you are a son of Adam?" Briefly, Tumnus's ears stood up straight.

"I suppose I am. But I'm surprised that you, apparently named for a Sumerian god, are referring to a Judeo-Christian personage."

Tumnus offered to refill my wine glass, and I accepted.

"Perhaps I'm expecting too much of my unconscious," I said. "You and the rest of this dream world" – I described a circle in the air with my index finger – "may be no more than a consequence of Claridge's eleven-course meals."

Tumnus looked at me in a way with which I'm quite familiar, as I perfected it long ago: the indulgent-yet-wary look used by those confident they are not mad, when observing those not so confident.

"I wish to know your name, son of Adam," Tumnus said.

"I beg your pardon. Of course. Doctor Carl Jung."

"How did you come to Narnia, Carl the Young?"

"Narnia?" I struggled to come up with an explanation for the word. After considering Hebrew, Greek, and Latin word roots, I gave it up. "I arrived unintentionally, I'm afraid."

I was reluctant to mention the wardrobe. Another womb symbol, no doubt.

Tumnus must have been content with my answer, because he took out a reed pipe and began to play a soothing, yet haunting, melody.

He played while standing, his eyes closed, and he swayed back and forth in time with the music. I was immediately lulled, and fought the sensation; I know not why.

"Reed pipes," I said. "A favorite of Pan and his followers. Like Tammuz, Pan was also a god of shepherds. If shepherds are the connection, perhaps you represent spiritual guidance in my dream world."

Tumnus stopped playing for a moment. 

"In Narnia, Carl, men are a myth. Perhaps I am not your dream. Perhaps you are mine."

His voice was low and soothing. Again I fought the lassitude overcoming me.

"Interesting," I said. "I must write this down immediately upon waking up."

Tumnus resumed playing.

The fire was warm, and the light danced on my eyelids. I drifted pleasantly. My eyes closed.

Although the music continued, Tumnus must have approached me, because his hand stealthily touched my hair.

His touch was so gentle I was not alarmed, and I feigned sleep during his exploration. At last his fingers came to rest on one of my ears. He let out a huff of surprised breath, as if my ears were unimaginably strange.

* * *

I woke in a dark room, and was disappointed to be awake and no longer in my dream world. Then I remembered I had resolved to write down everything that had happened. With the help of moonlight coming through a window, I found my journal and pen, but they seemed the wrong shape and weight, so I searched for the candle.

But another candle was lit first.

When I saw Tumnus's face in the circle of light, I cried out in alarm.

Tumnus was beside me immediately. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Tea?"

"Thank you," I said steadily enough.

But the fear was quite real: I dreaded seeing a waking hallucination.

Earlier this year, I experienced a horrible confrontation with the unconscious. The notion that I was hallucinating again, just before I am to deliver a talk to a British medical society, was unbearable.

While a faun is a mild manifestation in comparison to what I saw before (the land drowned in a sea of blood), anything out of the ordinary brings the moment back to me, and sends my heart racing.

Tumnus brought me tea. As I sipped it, I reassured myself that I was still asleep, still dreaming, still sitting in a chair in Tumnus's cave home; I was _not_ awake and seeing a faun in an English country house bedroom.

 _I must tell Freud of this_ , I thought, and felt a stab of grief when I remembered I could not.

Freud would have listened to me talk of the faun and Narnia, and – for all that he would have looked faintly disapproving – he would have pulled out of it an astonishing insight.

If I was thinking of Freud in this dream, he had something to do with it. But what? Then I understood.

"Tumnus," I said. "I have lost a friend, and perhaps gained another. You."

"Ah," Tumnus said.

Tumnus sat in the chair opposite me. His ears drooped. He looked miserable. And guilty.

"What is wrong?" I asked.

"We must leave at once," Tumnus said in a whisper. "Before the White Witch's spies know you are here."

My heart sank. Whatever my unconscious had in store for me, the White Witch sounded like a thoroughly unpleasant part of it. If my dream was about to turn into a nightmare, I was willing to leave it.

"The mother as destroyer," I said gloomily. "Harpies. Furies. An ugly old crone symbolizing death."

"No, they say she is very beautiful," Tumnus said."But she must not find you. I do not have time to explain; you must return to your world the same way you came." Tumnus looked at my slippers, still drying by the fire. "I’m sorry I have nothing warmer for you to wear."

"Do not be sorry," I said. "It is not your fault I came away in my nightclothes. And it is not your fault you do not wear shoes, my little faun."

I put on my nearly-dry (the detail!) slippers and stood up.

Tumnus, smiling shyly, held up a large book bound in red leather.

"Carl, perhaps you would like to take this with you?" 

I realized it was the book I had mistaken for my journal.

"I cannot possibly take it, Tumnus; it is too generous of you."

At the same time, I was filled with covetousness. I wanted the red book desperately, and tried to rationalize my desire for it: if my dream Friend offered me something, shouldn't I accept it?

It struck me how few books I have encountered in my dreams. I could not recall ever reading one – or reading anything at all, not even a letter. Strange, when I consider how large the written word looms in my daily life.

I was more certain than ever Tumnus was a guide to the unconscious (collective or otherwise), and what he was telling me was: create! write!

I took the book from him and tucked it under my arm. We left Tumnus's home and went out into the forest. It was extremely dark; snow was falling heavily, and the moon was gone. When Tumnus took my arm to guide me, I held his umbrella over both of us.

When we reached the lone street lamp in the woods, I could see the wardrobe off in the trees.

"Thank you," I said. "I hope to see you again."

To my surprise, Tumnus had tears in his eyes.

I was suddenly worried on his behalf. I had a horrible feeling the White Witch would appear and pursue him, following his trail of hoof prints in the snow.

I took Tumnus's hand, and clasped it warmly. "You have been very good to me, Friend."

"Not at all." Tumnus tried to smile. "Go now. Go!"

I brushed through stiff trees, then soft coats, and was soon back in a chilly English bedroom. Not knowing what else to do, I climbed into the bed, which was ice cold.

Trying to fall asleep in a dream is an extremely peculiar sensation.

* * *

I woke in the cold grey morning, looked about for a faun, then laughed at myself. I was back in the solid bulk of Fledge House.

A desire for tea drove me downstairs. I found everyone in the dining room, filling their plates from a sideboard lavishly heaped with food. Kirke was not present. After I helped myself, the others eyed my scanty plateful with suspicion.

"Reducing?" Luxford asked.

"I had a little something at midnight," I said, enjoying my private joke.

After breakfast, I sat on a stone bench in the garden, where I am making this entry. It was raining when I woke, but for the now the sun is out.

I had reached the point in my dream just before Tumnus's music made me drift off, when Professor Kirke appeared at the end of the garden. Hailing him, I made room for him on the bench. Kirke sat beside me, so I went to close the book.

Kirke looked down on it, and his face lost color.

It was then I realized I was holding a red leather journal, not my usual black one, and the red journal was identical to the one Tumnus offered me in the dream. The red book must have been on my bedside table when I retired for the night; I suppose I picked it up this morning without even noticing it.

It struck me what a curious thing the red book is. There is the unusual size and weight of it, signs it was made by an artisan of the bookbinding craft. The luxurious leather cover is embossed in gold with a heraldic animal which may be a winged horse. Each page is a pleasure to turn.

There is nothing of the factory about it; it is handmade. And, I realized with embarrassment, probably quite expensive. 

From Kirke's aghast expression, my use of it was not welcome. But it was not my fault he, or perhaps a servant, had carelessly left the red book in a guest's room.

"I'm terribly sorry," I said. "It was in my room this morning, and I mistook it for a journal of my own. If you like, I can remove the pages I've used–"

"You say it was in your room?" Kirke was still pale, but no longer the ghastly color he had been moments before. "The room with the wardrobe?"

My face turned red. Was Kirke implying I took it from elsewhere in the house? Had his housekeeper told him of my visit to his library?

Kirke gave me a look of curious intensity. "Are you quite all right?"

"I'm fine. Slept very well," I lied.

Kirke suddenly broke into a smile. "I underestimated you, Doctor Jung. I thought you were… well, too old. Too fixed in your ways."

 _I am not yet forty_ , I was about to protest.

"I must say I am surprised to find your science allows room for whimsy." Kirke smiled down at the book.

I should explain I had not only written an account of my dream, but also added several illustrations. The page Kirke was smiling at held my sketches of Tumnus, the door to his cave home, and his reed pipe.

It was my turn to be surprised. Why would a Classics scholar find fauns trivial?

"There is nothing whimsical about fauns," I said. "I am studying myth with the intention of unlocking the mysteries of the collective unconscious."

"Oh, I know fauns are serious enough," Kirke said, his smile nearly doubling in size. "I was referring to the drawings, in general. You have quite a talent, Doctor Jung. And your penmanship! Why, a medieval monk would give his right arm for it."

Mollified, I decided to give Kirke a full explanation of my interest in myth.

I began by saying myths of creatures such as fauns (half human, half beast) existed among all primitive peoples, and I reminded Kirke of his story of selkies the night before (half human, half seal; remember to ask him for sources).

"Human-animal hybrids are but one example of similar myth elements worldwide," I said. "As you know, there are hundreds of elements in common."

Kirke nodded with enthusiastic agreement.

"My theory," I said, "is that there is a scientific principle at work, which we do not yet understand. Humanity has common myths because of something else we have in common, which I call the collective unconscious."

I paused, for I could see Kirke was turning it over in his mind.

"Must the reason for common myths be scientific?" Kirke said at last.

It was precisely the sort of question which infuriates Freud, so I took it in the spirit Kirke offered it, and did not give the usual answer: an adamant _yes_.

"I try to keep an open mind," I said. "For instance, last night, I dreamed about this faun." I pointed to my drawing.

Kirke's eyebrows shot up.

"He was not the typical faun of myth," I said. 

"How so?" Kirke asked.

He leaned toward me, completely focused on my words. It was quite flattering.

"Well, what does one think of when one thinks of fauns?" I said. "Slyness, mischief-making, and unbridled lust. But my faun was a sweet little fellow. Quite domestic. He even gave me tea."

To my surprise, Kirke laughed heartily.

"Oh no, Doctor Jung! Fauns are every bit as bad as the myths say!"

Then Kirke stood, and _ran like a schoolboy_ for the house. Before he went in, he stopped, turned around, and shouted, "If you aren't too old, then neither am I! Keep the book! It's not mine, anyway!"

What an odd man. I like him very much, nonetheless.

* * *

_**The Private Diary of Doctor Carl Jung  
Claridge's, London  
August, 1913** _

Back in the hubbub of London, I attempted to put aside my extraordinary dream until the conference was at an end. Fortunately, my talks were not demanding, the subject merely "On psycho-analysis."

The goal is to convince the English to attend our international conferences, and subscribe to our publications – a necessary step prior to joining our association and contributing research. But thoughts on how I was faring with my mission fled in an instant when I saw Kirke with a young woman in Claridge's tearoom.

I would not have imposed, but Kirke waved me over. He introduced the young woman as Miss Plummer, and we talked of inconsequential things and ate several pastries while I racked my brain trying to come up with a subtle way to gain an invitation back to Fledge House.

As soon as I mentioned it was the last day of the conference, Kirke leapt in and removed the need.

"If you can be spared, you must come join us in the country again," Kirke said. "I insist, and so does Miss Plummer."

Kirke told me which platform to meet them at; we shall go together.

I have much to do if I am not to be late to the train station.


	2. Chapter 2

_**The Private Diary of Doctor Carl Jung  
Fledge House, England  
August, 1913** _

This shall be a long entry.

We spent a quiet evening. Miss Plummer and I were Kirke's only guests. After dinner, we sat in the drawing room and talked about myth.

Kirke told Miss Plummer of my dream; she was as interested as he had been. I offered more detail, and then an extraordinary thing happened. When I mentioned the White Witch, Miss Plummer covered her mouth with her hands. Kirke rose and stood by the fireplace, his back to us.

Miss Plummer joined him there, and placed a hand on his shoulder. I had no idea what had come over them both, but, as it was obviously a private matter, I excused myself, saying I was tired due to the demands of the conference.

Back in the room with the wardrobe, I lay down and tried to fall asleep. I had no reason to believe I had to be at Fledge House to dream of Narnia and my faun again, but I could not help but think it.

Time passed slowly – how slowly, I do not know. I refused to look at my watch, which I had left on the bedside table.

But it was no good; I couldn't sleep, and it was as cold as ever. Telling myself I would choose the first fur I touched, I rose from bed and went to the wardrobe. After all, the fur did not have to fit me; I could spread it over myself like a blanket.

But as my hands sank into the furs, I let out an exclamation. A thorn had pricked me.

I stepped into the wardrobe, pushed the furs aside, and there before me was the wood. I had fallen asleep without realizing it, and was already dreaming.

I knew immediately the tone of my dream would be different this time, because, in Narnia, it was no longer winter, and it was no longer night. It was high noon, and spring had come. The air was warm, and a luscious fragrance, like apples and flowers, was in the air.

The bright sun meant I could not find the street lamp easily. But at last I did. The lamp was still lit, even in the middle of the day, and I wondered what that might mean. 

In spite of the changed landscape, I found my way to Tumnus's cave. After I knocked on the door, I waited impatiently, fighting a temptation to peek in a window.

The door opened, and there was Tumnus. In one hand, he held a slice of toast. He dropped it.

I laughed at his expression. You would have thought _I_ was the mythical creature, so extreme was his surprise.

Tumnus embraced me as eagerly as a long-lost member of his family. The solid feel of him in my arms reminded me how fantastically real my first dream of Narnia had been.

"May I come in?" I asked, smiling.

"Of course," Tumnus said, with a smile to match mine.

He set out apples, grapes, bread, cheese, butter, and honey, as well as beer, until there was a ridiculous amount of food for the two of us.

I contentedly watched his preparations. I had nearly forgotten how pleasing Tumnus was to look at. The warm weather suited him. There was joy in him that had not been there before, his cheeks rosy, his eyes brighter than ever.

I sat before the small fire and ate heartily. I thought of Persephone, and told myself to beware. And then I ate even more.

"I have been so worried for you," Tumnus said. "I feared the White Witch had prevented you from reaching your world. But the Witch is dead now; you are quite safe here."

"I have been gone less than a week," I said. "How is it summer already?"

"You have been gone nearly three years," Tumnus said. "But time is different in your world. Queen Lucy told me so."

"You have a queen?"

"Yes, at long last, two of them. And two kings." Tumnus looked proud, as if he had personally crowned them. "Thanks to them, our long winter came to an end."

I made a note to myself to look up the meaning of double kings and queens (start with the Sumerians?).

After we had eaten, Tumnus turned around to put the kettle on the fire.

I exclaimed in shock. "Tumnus! What happened to you?"

His back was scored with marks. I was quite sure they had not been there in my first dream.

"Ah," Tumnus said. "I must tell you what happened after you disappeared back into your world."

We settled with our tea, then Tumnus began his tale.

"Rumor of your visit to Narnia eventually reached the White Witch's ears," Tumnus said. "I do not know who betrayed me; it no longer matters. I was taken in for questioning–"

I interrupted. "By questioning do you mean–" Tumnus had been _tortured?_

"I was forced to take an oath to serve the Witch," Tumnus said. "I had to swear to deliver to her any sons of Adam or daughters of Eve I found."

"I should have confronted the White Witch myself," I said. "That is my rule, after all."

"I am glad you did not." Tumnus looked away from me for a moment, and bit his lip.

Tumnus explained that, according to Narnian legend, humans were the rightful rulers of Narnia, and their coming signified the end of the Witch's reign. Therefore, the Witch had been determined to prevent any humans from entering Narnia: which meant putting humans to death.

"It did not go as badly for me as it might have," Tumnus said. "Not ever having met a son of Adam, I wasn't entirely sure you were one, and eventually neither was the Witch, so she let me go. There are no prophecies about you, you see."

"Prophecies?" I said. This was heady stuff! I could hardly wait to hear more.

"Not even the centaurs could account for you," Tumnus said. "The coming of our kings and queens, and the Witch's downfall, was foretold. But your coming was not. The centaurs studied the stars, but in the end they proclaimed Carl the Young was outside of Narnian myth."

This was unexpectedly difficult.

Perhaps outside of Narnian myth meant outside of the collective unconscious? If Narnia was not my unconscious, but the collective unconscious, it would make sense that the collective unconscious would not take me, an individual, into account–

"I almost believed I had made you up," Tumnus said. "When our kings and queens arrived, they were so much smaller than you, you see. I was no longer sure you were human. But eventually I knew you were, because our kings and queens come from your world. They even entered Narnia from the same point, near the Lantern Waste."

Tumnus refilled our tea cups.

"No doubt Aslan could explain why your coming was not foretold," Tumnus said. "But no one liked to ask him."

"Aslan," I said. "Is that Arabic?"

"Aslan is the great lion," Tumnus said.

"Ah, a lion!" I said. "Of course. My sun sign is Leo." 

I put down my teacup, and beckoned to Tumnus. 

"Come, let's have a look at you," I said.

Tumnus's face flushed. "What do you mean?"

"At your back, Tumnus. An examination."

Remaining seated, I pulled a footstool in front of me. 

Tumnus still did not move toward me, so I added coaxingly, "It's all right, I'm a doctor."

Finally, Tumnus sat on the footstool, his back to me. I made a mental note to tell Kirke he was completely wrong about fauns. They are terribly shy creatures.

Tumnus's skin was wonderfully warm, and his fur was so deliciously soft I wanted to stroke it. It was a challenge to perform my examination with the necessary detachment. But I am nothing if not practiced in feigning indifference.

"Tumnus," I said, aghast. "You were whipped. More than once."

"Alas, yes," Tumnus said. "I was questioned again after Queen Lucy arrived."

There were two sets of weals on his back. The first had healed more slowly, and the marks left would be, I feared, permanent scars. The second had healed much more cleanly, the marks nearly gone. Quite odd.

Perhaps, I considered, the White Witch symbolizes the fear I have of being beset by horrific visions, and perhaps Tumnus is the guide to my unconscious who will protect me.

Knowing Tumnus had suffered the abuse for my sake saddened me deeply. I wanted to kiss his shoulder in apology. I patted it instead.

"All done," I said. "You are fine, I'm glad to say. No sign of infection."

Tumnus stood up. "Do we switch places now?"

"What?"

"Shouldn't I examine you now, Carl?" 

_Of course not_ , I was about to say, but Tumnus looked at me so appealingly I did not have the heart to. And really what was the harm? Tumnus apparently thought "examining" was a reciprocal human custom, like a dinner invitation.

Tumnus sat in the chair, and I sat on the footstool.

Tumnus grasped my pajama top and said, "Carl, if you would…"

I unbuttoned my pajama top and removed it.

Tumnus's hands were warm and dry on my skin. There was some slight awkwardness when he settled my pajama bottoms lower on my hips, presumably so he could see more of my spine.

"You're so smooth," Tumnus said from behind me, his voice oddly high. "What is it like to have so little hair? Are you this bare and soft all over?" 

"I am not soft," I protested. "And I am certainly not hairless."

"But you do not have a beard."

"I shave it," I said.

"And this?" Tumnus played with the short hair on the nape of my neck.

"I cut it." Trying not to shiver from the touch of his fingers, I spoke unintentionally loudly.

"But _why_?" Tumnus asked. "Do humans prefer hairlessness?"

"No. Well, perhaps some do."

Reluctantly, it seemed, Tumnus patted my shoulder. "I am done with examining you, Carl."

Slightly embarrassed, I rose from the footstool and put on my pajama top, buttoning it quickly.

"I'll have you know I am considered quite masculine among humans," I said, and felt even more embarrassed. Why should I justify myself?

Tumnus looked perplexed, and changed the subject. "Shall I play for you again?"

"Please," I said. "Music would be wonderful."

"Oh, dear," Tumnus said. "It will have to wait. There will be a celebration tonight, Carl, and I shall play then. You must come! It is the thirtieth of April. We shall gather in the great meadow, and have bonfires–"

"Ah, the first of May!" I said. "Walpurga's Night. An ancient ceremony which–"

"So you should rest," Tumnus said rather hastily. "As you are wearing your nightclothes again, am I right in assuming you left your world when you would normally be sleeping?"

"Yes, but…" How to explain I was sleeping _right now_ , in fact?

Tumnus opened a door in the wall of the cave and invited me into a small bedchamber. I had to duck slightly to get through the doorway. Inside was a single bed, and it was not a large one. It would comfortably hold two fauns, but not a faun and a man.

Seeing my hesitation, Tumnus said, "Please rest here, Carl. I shall read in the parlor for a while."

After removing my slippers, I stretched out upon the bed. 

"I’m glad to be back," I said.

"I am glad, too, Carl the Young."

I dozed, sometimes stirring briefly to reassure myself I was still inside the cave; I was afraid of waking up in Fledge House. I could hear Tumnus in the parlor, singing softly.

* * *

When I woke, the door to the parlor was ajar, and I could see the glow from the fireplace, so I knew immediately I was still dreaming, and still in Narnia.

It was an hour after sunset. As we prepared to depart, Tumnus convinced me to leave my slippers and pajama top behind. He explained Narnians, with the exception of dwarves and giants, did not wear much clothing.

"Our kings and queens are finely dressed, but that is different," Tumnus said.

It was a balmy night, and I doubted my slippers would hold up long outdoors, so I agreed. Tumnus brought only his reed pipe, a shell cup, and a water bottle of hardened leather.

We had walked for a quarter of an hour when Tumnus offered me a drink from the bottle. It wasn't water, but wine. We shared it as we walked, and soon reached the great meadow.

It was not until we had proceeded about sixty feet into the meadow that I had a sense of scale.

There were two enormous bonfires at the meadow's center. Hundreds of creatures were entering the meadow from the forest which surrounded it.

Far off to the east, I could see an endless ocean. To the south and north were towering mountains. Between them and the meadow were miles and miles of woods. Over all was a vast dark sky lit by brilliant and unfamiliar stars; the stars were mirrored in the distant ocean.

During my first visit to my Narnian dream world, I sensed it was large; perhaps _complete_ is the better term. But this was different.

In every direction, what I sensed was _infinity_.

And amidst it I was both the merest speck, and the thing entire.

For only the second time in my life, I fainted. When I came to, I was lying on the grass. Tumnus was on his knees and leaning over me. Also leaning over me: a badger, a bear, and a mouse the size of a cat.

The mouse threw a thimbleful of wine in my face, then announced, "It's coming round."

I closed my eyes. "Tumnus, I have taken a bad turn. I just heard a mouse speak."

The mouse harrumphed. I opened my eyes again. With one hand, Tumnus pulled me to my feet; he was surprisingly strong.

"He's rather weak stock, Tumnus, compared to our kings and queens," the mouse said.

"This is my dream, and I promise you I am not weak," I said to the mouse. "Now explain why you have appeared to me. What do you symbolize?"

The mouse bristled. "Give this human wine, Tumnus, until he believes what his eyes tell him."

The mouse left in a huff. The other animals went with him, leaving me with Tumnus.

"You must not speak of my friends as if they were imaginary," Tumnus said. "Most Narnians have not had the privilege of knowing sons of Adam and daughters of Eve. They are unaware your world is so dull – Queen Lucy says there is not a single talking beast in it – and that there is much about Narnia you find strange."

I did not entirely know what to make of Tumnus's words, but I did know I had embarrassed him in front of his friends.

"My sincere apologies," I said.

Just as I resolved not to disappoint him again, I saw a creature moving directly toward us at terrific speed. It was a centaur. I must have flinched, for Tumnus put an arm around me to steady me.

"Carl," Tumnus said in a low voice. "Be extremely polite. Please."

The centaur halted a few feet away, then boomed, "This must be Carl the Young."

I recalled it was the centaurs who had been tasked to explain my presence in Narnia, and that they had been unable to.

"Man without a Myth," the centaur said. "Enlighten us!"

I cleared my throat. "Sir, I am still unsure of where I am. Does Narnia represent my unconscious, or the collective unconscious? I am leaning toward the latter, because this world is far larger than anything my mind could create."

The centaur glared at Tumnus, who looked apologetic. I was extremely relieved when the centaur galloped away.

"I am sorry," I said. "That did not go well."

Tumnus laughed. "On the contrary, Carl, it went as well as could be expected. Follow me."

Tumnus took me to a small pond, dipped his shell cup into it, and then handed the cup to me. I drank the contents down. Although it was only water, it invigorated and refreshed me. Suddenly, I had a powerful urge to dance.

Taking Tumnus's hand, I hurried toward the bonfires. Tumnus took out his reed pipe, and we joined the throng who were dancing and singing: other fauns, centaurs, dryads, nymphs, and an entire Ark's worth of animals.

It is difficult to describe what happened in any semblance of order.

There were two large bonfires, and there seemed to be a plan to dance between them, symbolizing the end of winter darkness and moving toward the light. I held Tumnus's hand with one of mine, and with the other I held onto a badger. And then we danced.

The night went on, the stars wheeled overhead, the flames leapt up to touch them. 

As fantastic as the scene was, I was still amazed when Bacchus appeared. Wherever he walked, grape vines sprang out of the ground. Soon the vines were everywhere: twining in my hair, and encircling the legs of every beast. 

In the confusion of the vines, I was separated from Tumnus. At first I felt no anxiety, but eventually I grew uneasy; if Tumnus was my guide and protector here, I needed him with me.

I asked several creatures if they had seen Tumnus. At last a bear pointed to the forest at the southern edge of the meadow.

After crossing the meadow, I entered the forest. The ground was uneven and rock-strewn. As I was barefoot, I had to pick my way carefully.

Ahead, I heard a rushing stream, and several voices. One voice, I was certain, belonged to the centaur who had addressed me earlier. I became interested in the conversation when I heard my name; Tumnus had to be among the group. I hurried forward until I reached a small clearing.

There I found a centaur (not the same one, thankfully), a gryphon, a tall willowy woman with leaves in her hair, a dwarf, and a rabbit.

There was also a faun, but he was not Tumnus; he was taller, older, and his fur was a glossy dark red.

The gryphon was the first to spot me.

"It is Carl the Young," the gryphon said. "What luck."

"You must settle something for us," the rabbit demanded of me. "It is this: are humans made like apes, or are they normal?"

"Rabbit, you are a fool," said the centaur. "Our first king and queen, Frank and Helen, were human, and their children married Narnians – dryads, river gods, fauns, and nymphs – and had children by them."

"They married dwarves as well," said the dwarf. "Don't forget that."

"So humans must be like us," said the willow woman. "Not like monkeys; what a disgusting thought."

"All the same," said the rabbit, "Carl the Young should show us how humans are made. Remove your covering, Man, if you please."

"It is customary for humans to remain clothed," I said. Was it not enough for me to be shirtless? But I was resolved to remain civil; I had embarrassed Tumnus enough.

"Why?" asked the rabbit. "What do you have that needs to be hidden?"

"Silence, Rabbit!" said the centaur.

The centaur's voice was so forceful everyone stopped talking for several moments. I was the first to speak.

"I am looking for Tumnus," I said to the faun. "Have you seen him?"

The faun nodded, and beckoned to me to follow him.

I followed him into the woods. The sound of rushing water grew louder, and I saw we were on a steep bank leading down to a stream.

The faun picked his way down to the water, and dipped in a seashell, which he brought back to me. I thanked him for it, and had drunk half of it when he snatched the shell from me and downed the rest. 

I could not be sure in the starlight, but the water seemed to be wine, for it stained his mouth. Otherwise, it was similar to the drink Tumnus had given me. I was refreshed and invigorated. But I became aware almost immediately of a secondary effect. 

For a moment, it was as if my blood had turned to fire. Then my body throbbed so intensely I did not immediately recognize the sensation: sexual desire, the likes of which I've never experienced. 

Next I became aware of the faun, and of his smell. It was a powerful odor, different from that of a human, but not in any way disagreeable, sharp yet clean.

The faun slid his hands under the waistband of my pajama bottoms, pulled the silk away from my skin, and looked down at me. It was not only the rabbit who was curious.

Being looked at so frankly was incredibly arousing. The silk moved over my skin, further inciting me. 

The faun seemed pleased with me, because he smiled and leaned forward to kiss me.

His mouth never made it to mine. Something smacked into him, as hard as a runaway horse. The faun fell to the ground, taking me with him. 

I looked up and saw Tumnus, who pulled me to my feet.

Tumnus's hand went to my mouth and wiped it; I suppose my mouth was stained as well.

"Oh, dear," Tumnus said. "The fool gave you enough for a centaur."

Tumnus's fingers on my lips focused my fleshly urges on him.

I seized his waist and sank my fingers into his fur. I leaned down to smell his neck, and for a time my mind fogged over completely. I said _Dear God, Tumnus, your eyes_ and _I must have you_ and other things which were half entreaty, half demand.

I was dimly aware the red faun was moving away from us, limping as he went. I missed him not at all.

"Carl, why did you leave the meadow?" Tumnus asked.

"I was looking for you," I said, my voice slow and thick. "A bear told me–"

"Oh, Carl." Tumnus smiled. "Bears have terrible eyesight. But all's well. I saw you leaving the meadow, and followed you."

"Tumnus, I have been enchanted," I said with a great effort. "Get away from me while you can. I expect you can outrun me."

"Do not worry on my account, Carl." Tumnus's blue eyes were merry.

"You have a rude rabbit to thank for this," I said, unaware I was making little sense at the time.

I had thought of the fauns and other human-like creatures in Narnia as neuter. Because of the rabbit, I had learned otherwise. My mind was full of possibilities. If I was like the Narnians, then they were like me.

"I do?" Tumnus laughed. "Then I must remember to thank him."

"You do not understand," I said, fighting an urge to bite his red lips. "I must be twice your age. I have committed adultery many times, and all manner of unnatural acts. I am not _safe_."

Tumnus continued to smile. Unable to restrain myself any longer, I gripped Tumnus's hair and pulled him against me.

Tumnus did not resist; his lips were on mine. I felt triumph, and then I realized how soft his mouth was, and then that it was _engaged_ with mine, his breath coming fast and hard against my lips.

Somehow, Tumnus pulled free of my grasp. He went to the stream, and brought back his shell brimming with a clear liquid.

"Drink this, Carl. It may help."

I gulped it down, and the burning eased slightly.

Tumnus draped one of my arms over his shoulders, and then he walked briskly, pulling me with him.

"Come along, Carl," Tumnus said. "I have a remedy for you at home."

I marveled again at his strength, but this time in a lustful way. I imagined his face flushed and damp with sweat. I wondered how long it would take me to exhaust him. Similar thoughts occupied me during the journey to his cave.

When we were inside, I tried to hang on to what was left of my self control.

"Tumnus, if your bedroom door has a lock, use it. Otherwise, I shall do something absolutely disgusting to you."

Then I tore at my clothing; the cooling effect of Tumnus's drink had worn off, and the room was stifling.

Before I could stop him, Tumnus helped me shed my clothing. As I was wearing little, it was soon all on the floor, and I stood there naked.

"You're so bare," Tumnus said, his face flushed dark red. "I can see everything."

I clenched my jaw, and looked up at the roof of the cave. I was gathering the will to tell Tumnus to get away, when he stepped forward and slid one leg between mine.

His fur against my bare skin felt so good I swayed on my feet. I put my hands on his shoulders, and leaned on him.

Tumnus moved his leg between mine, and I groaned shamelessly. Using his shoulders for leverage, I pressed my cock against his leg, rubbing against him so forcefully it was a wonder we did not fall.

Tumnus looked down at my cock. Then he sank to his knees and began to lick me. 

Until that moment, I had not realized his tongue was different from my own.

There was no difference in shape, but his tongue was longer, thicker, and far, far stronger than a human's. 

Wholly absorbed in what he was doing, Tumnus licked my stomach, my thighs, my balls, and then my cock, his expression rapt. I knew what his intensity signified: he had imagined doing this to me from the first moment I had been in his company.

Every stroke of his tongue eased my ache, and inflamed it. This, I realized, was the remedy he had spoken of.

When my knees bent, and I gasped for breath, Tumnus stood and led me to the bed, pushing me onto it without ceremony.

He hauled me around so my feet were on the floor. Then he knelt on the floor next to the bed, and took my cock into his mouth. For an instant his mouth was gentle. Then he sucked on me powerfully.

He looked up at my face as he sucked, his mouth latched onto me, his sweet eyes wild. I was going to climax in moments, but I did not bother to warn him, because I sensed he would not stop until I had, no matter what I said or did. The thought was exhilarating, not frightening.

When I climaxed, he nearly choked, but then swallowed greedily, and licked me with his tongue.

He stood to climb onto the bed with me, and I could at last see his cock. It was indeed like mine, rising proudly from between his furry legs.

He lay on top of me and kissed my mouth. I pushed my cock against his fur, and the sensation was so intensely good I grew hard again.

He rolled me over, and kissed the back of my bare neck, his mouth strong and eager as he licked his way down my back. His horns scraped my skin as he moved downward. When his mouth reached my buttocks, I thought _Please_ , then his tongue pushed between my buttocks and he lapped hard.

There was a ferocious single-mindedness to his actions that would have embarrassed me if I had had the strength to remember thinking of him as innocent.

When his tongue entered me forcefully, I realized his tongue would be followed by his cock, and that he would not cease licking me until I was desperate for him. I clutched at the bedposts and tried not to howl. 

When he at last stopped and lay on my back, his fur against my sensitized skin made me thrash. And then he apparently misunderstood my movement as an attempt to get away, for suddenly I could feel sharp horns pressed against my back, daring me to move.

I went limp against the bed. It was not a conscious decision. It is just what one does when one feels something as sharp as a blade pressing into one's flesh.

The touch of his horns went away. His hand went to my buttocks, and he slid a finger into me easily. 

"So smooth," Tumnus said, his voice dark and filled with want. 

He withdrew his finger, and lay on my back again. His cock, hard and wet, slid in the crease of my buttocks. I bucked up against him. 

He pulled my hips up slightly, tested me with the tip of a finger, and slid his cock into me with an ease which shocked me. When he was flush against me, his maddening fur tickling and caressing me, I let out a choked gasp. His legs, on the outside of mine, clamped against me firmly.

Then he rode me – there is no other phrase for it. He rode me long past the point of what would have been exhaustion, if not for the red faun's enchanted drink.

The sensation was one I had only imagined. I will not say even here who that imagined lover was. I will only say the experience of submitting, of being nothing more than the object Tumnus was using to obtain his own relief, removed every care and worry from my mind. I was his. Entirely, mindlessly, his.

In spite of the enchantment, weariness began to overtake me. Tumnus sensed it, and turned me over onto my back. He pushed my legs apart, and mounted me again. Whether by accident or design, the top of his head was level with my chin, and a horn nudged my throat, pressing into my flesh.

With each of his thrusts into my willing body, the horn pressed into my neck, until I knew it was no accident. Tumnus wanted me pinned. I tried to lift my head, but his horn kept me in place.

At last he dismounted. I lay unmoving, breathing heavily, as he quickly washed us with a damp cloth. He ran his hands over my bare skin, then suddenly straddled me with a look of determination. 

He struggled to take me inside him, sometimes making sounds of pleasure, sometimes of discomfort. But finally he was flush against me, his hands spread out on my chest as he settled himself.

Because I finally could, I ran my hands over his legs, petting him at last.

I had remained as still as possible during Tumnus's struggle, partly to aid him, and partly because I had been nearly exhausted. Perhaps it was the opportunity to catch my breath, perhaps something else, but my languor began to fade, and I became aware of Tumnus's effort to move upon me, and of the soft cries the effort drew from him.

I stopped stroking his legs and touched his cock. Tumnus threw his head back, and groaned. The look of pleasure on his face was absolute. 

I am usually silent during lovemaking (what could one say that would add to it?), but this experience was so unlike any I have had, dream or not, that I found myself speaking, and I immediately discovered the key to it: saying the terribly obvious.

"You like that," I said, moving my hips up.

"Carl, are you sure you're not a young giant?" Tumnus was so breathless I could barely make out his words.

Gripping Tumnus about the waist, I turned us over, so he was under me, but still impaled on my cock. The flush on his face had extended down to his chest. When I moved within him, he gripped me perfectly, and the _sound_ he made. My exhaustion fled like a shot.

I had no horns to keep him at my mercy. I had something better. He was absolutely helpless. And the obvious thing to say, therefore the right thing to say, was quickly on my lips.

"You are really just a little faun, aren't you?"

He gasped, and nodded.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" I said, still marveling I could speak. "Anything?"

When Tumnus had nearly gathered the breath to reply, I drove into him several times, then stilled.

"Oh," Tumnus said. "Please. Please don't stop."

The act of penetration carries a burden with it: to do no harm. In the past, I have come close to forgetting myself and putting aside all gentleness. But I have only come close; I never crossed the line. But this was different. Tumnus wanted everything I was capable of, and was strong enough to take it.

So I was merciless. How long I pounded into him I cannot say. I may have gone on, and on, but when he climaxed, his seed spurting onto my chest, his body convulsing around me, I climaxed as well.

Immediately after, I rolled onto my side, my chest heaving for breath. I touched Tumnus's face in apology; I was too worn out to even kiss him.

Tumnus was breathing hard, but he was by no means exhausted. He brought me water to drink, rubbed me dry with a soft cloth, and stroked my bare body tenderly. All the ferocity had left him, and he curled about me, content.

His bed, it turned out, could hold a man and a faun comfortably.

* * *

When I woke, the sun was going down, and Tumnus was not there. A tub of water waited for me. After I bathed, I wrapped a blanket about me and went outside to watch the sun as it set behind the trees.

Tumnus returned with our dinner: two pheasants he had already cleaned and plucked. He roasted them over the fire. Though the memory is hazy now, I recall eating without the use of knife and fork, or even a plate, Tumnus feeding me directly from his hand.

When the meal was over and we had washed up, Tumnus poured wine for us. We leaned back in our chairs and regarded each other.

After you have been intimate with someone, your view of them changes. The imaginary Tumnus that had existed in my mind – the sweet domestic faun – was gone. In his place was the real Tumnus, a young male creature with desires and needs, flaws and strengths. What imaginary version of me Tumnus had replaced in his mind, I do not know. Only that he smiled at me.

Tumnus picked something up off the table next to us; it was the red book he had offered to me. It was odd to see it here, when I knew it was currently in my bedroom at Fledge House.

Tumnus opened it, and exclaimed in delight. He lifted the book to show me what had pleased him, and there was my sketch of him.

"Carl, this is very good! Do you paint portraits?"

"How peculiar," I said. "How–"

I stopped. _Was_ it peculiar for the red book to be here? If my pajamas were, why not the red book? _Because you took the book with you the last time you were in Narnia_ , my mind supplied. _How else would your drawing of Tumnus, which you made in Professor Kirke's garden, come to be in the book?_

The knowledge that had overwhelmed me in the meadow returned – of being gigantic beyond measure, and yet smaller than the smallest thing that ever was. The red book was–

"Carl, are you all right?" Tumnus asked.

"I've never made a portrait," I said, collecting myself. "But I would be happy to try."

Tumnus passed me the book, and I roughed out a sketch of him. Then we went to bed early, and slept through the night.

The next day, we went swimming in a river with a family of beavers, who afterward had us over for tea.

Days passed in pleasant pursuits. We went for hikes in the woods; there is no better companion than a faun on such expeditions. My silk pajamas snagged on bushes and trees, so Tumnus made a pair of trousers and boots for me out of soft suede.

I completed the portrait of Tumnus, and he hung it on the wall of his parlor in a place of honor, next to that of his father.

My beard grew out. When I rubbed my rough chin on Tumnus, he protested, and tackled me in retaliation. It ended with us in bed.

There is little more to tell.

After what I estimate to be more than a week, but less than a month, Tumnus received a message about me – that it was time for me to depart. He did not say from whom the message came, and I sensed I could not ask.

I dressed again in my pajamas – how alien they were to me then – and went with Tumnus to the clearing with the street lamp.

Tumnus had assured me I would return at precisely the instant I had left, that I had missed nothing. But would I ever return to Narnia? It was what I most wanted to know, and what I could not bear to ask. 

When the wardrobe was in view, we halted. It was morning, the weather pleasant, promising to turn into a warm, breezy day. 

"Thank you for being my guide," I said.

Tumnus quickly kissed me on the cheek, and said, "Thank you for allowing me to be."

As at our last leave-taking, his eyes were wet. 

"You have no need to be afraid for me this time," I said.

Tumnus nodded, the water in his eyes spilling over.

I kissed his mouth, he embraced me, and then I turned toward the wardrobe with a heavy heart.

* * *

Once again, I was back in my cold room in Kirke's ancient house.

My beard was gone, as if had never been, and I knew my sun-warmed skin had returned to its urban pallor. The Red Book was where I had left it in this world, on the table beside the bed.

I lay down and watched the room slowly lighten with the coming of dawn. Eventually, I picked up a pen and the Red Book, and began to write.

This time, I knew I would not waken from a dream.

### 

_**The Private Diary of Doctor Carl Jung  
POW Internment Camp, Switzerland  
October, 1916** _

Kirke's gratitude stage wore off three days after his arrival, and he became nearly catatonic. It was a struggle to get him to respond to even the simplest of questions. 

His artistic efforts were bleak. They usually began well; he drew pictures of London row houses, and scenes of the countryside surrounding Fledge House. But he did not know when to stop. He continued to add to the pictures until they were a dark, muddy mass.

After four weeks, there was an abrupt change in him. He arrived at our sessions with enthusiasm. He answered every question thoughtfully. His mood appeared to be normal in every way but one: he was never angry. His manner was like that of a nurse seeing to a patient during his last days.

I knew well what this change meant.

At the start of our session, after we had exchanged a few words on the weather (we never discussed current events, as that would mean talking about the war), I had a new question for him.

"What methods of suicide are you considering?" I asked.

I filled my pipe and lit it, giving Kirke time to compose himself.

Kirke's face twisted. "It doesn't matter. Nothing bloody _works_."

That gave me pause. "Please explain," I said.

"I tried to die on the battlefield," Kirke said.

"Meaning?"

"I attempted to take a machine gun nest single-handedly."

"What happened?"

"I took a machine gun nest single-handedly." Kirke paused. "A total of eight times. Eight different machine gun nests."

He was silent. I let him be for a while.

"Your friends," I asked. "Wilson, Luxford, and Banks?"

"We joined up together. They're dead."

"Miss Plummer?"

"I have had letters from her."

"What does she say?"

"I haven't read them."

The brief exchange utterly drained him. I gave him a cigarette, and we sat smoking in silence until the hour had elapsed (I never cut short a patient's time with me; a change in surroundings alone can do much), then a guard took Kirke away.

* * *

_**The Private Diary of Doctor Carl Jung  
POW Internment Camp, Switzerland  
October, 1916** _

When I had told Tumnus three years earlier he had no need to be afraid for me, I had been wrong. Somehow, Tumnus knew this, and had wept for me.

Before 1913 came to an end, my visions of apocalyptic destruction returned, and I became a recluse, rarely leaving the safety of my study. In 1914, the war began, and I discovered my visions had been inadequate, a pale shadow of the horror descending on us all.

It was then I truly turned to the Red Book. It bore the brunt of my unconscious mind. In it, I went down into those dark depths. When I told Professor Kirke I owed him thanks, I was referring to the role the Red Book has played, and still plays. Without it, I would not be clever. I would be shattered.

With cleverness, I can help my patients see where their neuroses lie. Together, we unearth the trauma, and categorize it, and make it a thing of intellect.

Until 1913, I foolishly believed cleverness was enough.

I learned I must do more for my patients. As I well know, madness is seductive, for it makes sense of _everything_. I had to help my patients seek something more. So how to help Kirke, when I know he already _has_ something greater than his despair?

I have known it since the moment he saw the Red Book in my hands, and his shock revealed to me he knew where I had found it.

In our sessions, Kirke has not once mentioned how he came to cross the Swiss border. Not a word out of his mouth about a great lion in the mountains, and why he was seeking it. There is a good chance the memory of his breakdown is inaccessible to him now, and will remain so for a long while, perhaps always. But I was sure he would remember the Red Book.

In our next session, I mentioned my stay at his home.

"Do you remember the day we talked in the garden, about fauns and myth?"

"That old rubbish," Kirke said, eying me warily.

"Yes, that rubbish," I said. "It turns out you were right about fauns. They are as bad as the myths say."

"If you say so," Kirke said.

"Do you remember what you said to me that day? _If you aren't too old, then neither am I._ "

"I was a fool," Kirke said.

"I don't think you were," I said. "I believe you were right. Your myth is not yet over."

Kirke's buried anger burst forth. He half rose from his chair. "Are you trying to say I have been _spared_ for some reason? What about my friends? Why weren't they?"

"I don't know," I said.

Kirke sagged back into his chair. _Neither do I_ , his weary face said plainly.

"But I do know that everything ends," I said. "Everything. White Witches are overthrown. Ice thaws. Spring returns."

Kirke stared at the floor.

"A faun once told me I was a son of Adam without a myth," I said. "But perhaps it was not in his world I was meant to do something, but in this one. Perhaps something for you. Because I do believe you were spared. That you are important."

Kirke's jaw worked.

"Do you remember giving me a book?" I asked.

Kirke stopped staring at the floor, and looked at me.

I could not make out his expression; I could not tell if I had frightened him, or comforted him. It was the first time, since his arrival at camp, that he had truly looked at me, as he had in his garden three years ago.

"You said you found it in my house," Kirke said. "I let you take it, yes. But it wasn't me that gave it to you."

His expression challenged me to call him insane. I didn't.

"I have read Polly's letters," Kirke announced suddenly.

Polly was Miss Plummer. "And what does she say?" I asked.

"She sends her love," Kirke said.

He crumpled in on himself and cried, but when the fit passed, he stood straighter and stronger.

* * *

When I returned to my quarters, I opened the Red Book, and sketched an image that had entered my mind soon after Kirke's arrival: a bright light in the center of a wood.

I dreamt of Narnia last night. It was only a dream, but I was still grateful for it. In the dream, I was a young man, and running down a steep green hill, Tumnus beside me.

Kirke is not too old to return to Narnia – I know in my heart he has been there – and neither am I. Someday, I shall be there again.

My experience there changed me forever; I may spend the rest of my days learning how. Some of the effects I know already – I cannot hear a flute without tears coming to my eyes – but others are still in the future, awaiting discovery. 

Meanwhile, I have the Red Book, the record of my journey into the unconscious, and what will be (I am now sure) my eventual safe return. My shepherd, and the light of the street lamp deep in the forest, shall guide me through.

Perhaps I shall direct my heirs to reveal the Red Book after my death. But for now, the Red Book is not for any human eyes but my own. And yet I know every word and drawing I enter into the Red Book is seen, and understood. Wherever I place the book in this world, it also lies in another, inside a snug cave, one lit by fire and surrounded by woods. As I said, not human eyes.

When my sketch was complete, I knew what it portrayed: Kirke's recovery. And mine. So I did what I always do whenever I am troubled in spirit – or whenever I feel great joy, as I do now: I turn to the flyleaf, where an inscription appeared during my darkest moments of 1914.

_For your journey, and your safe return. –T_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betas: [mrkinch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mrkinch/pseuds/mrkinch)! Thank you! 
> 
> Things I did not make up:
> 
> Carl Jung went to England in 1913, and gave a talk titled "On Psycho-analysis" to the British Psycho-Medical Society.
> 
> Carl Jung was drafted, and served as the medical commandant at a POW camp for British soldiers in Switzerland during WWI. He encouraged the men to take university courses. During this period, he pioneered art therapy.
> 
> Car Jung claimed he never let a manifestation of his unconscious escape without explanation.
> 
> The Red Book: using text and art, Carl Jung chronicled his psychological breakdown and recovery in his Red Book beginning in 1913. After Jung died in 1961, the contents of the Red Book were kept secret by Jung's family. The book was not published until 2009.
> 
> Things I made up:
> 
> In Narnian book canon, Professor Kirke's wardrobe was not built until later, perhaps around 1930, after a storm blew over the apple tree he planted, which grew from a Narnian apple core. For the purposes of my story, I'm assuming the storm came earlier. Since the tree grew quickly to full size, there would been enough wood to contribute to a wardrobe.
> 
> Fledge House: Professor Digory Kirke's house in the country does not have a name; I gave it one so I didn't have to keep writing _Professor Digory Kirke's house in the country_. _Fledge_ is the name of the cab horse transformed into a winged horse in _The Magician's Nephew_.
> 
> In book and film canon, time in Narnia and time in Earth do not match up (Narnian time goes by much faster) but they do appear to be sequential, moving together in tandem. But it seems each human's relationship with Narnian time is different. The Telmarines, who arrive in Narnia after the Pevensies, appear to have come from an earlier time in Earth's history (about 1700), while the Pevensies arrived from the late 1930s. In this story, I have Jung go back to a time that does not match up (just before the Pevensies go to Narnia; then he returns after they have left). There is nothing in Narnian canon that would contradict this, I think, but nothing confirms it is possible, either.
> 
> Inspiration:
> 
> This story had numerous muses. Chief among them was the improbable but true tale of Carl Jung's secret Red Book, which I encountered while researching another _A Dangerous Method_ story. C. S. Lewis's kitchen-sink (Father Christmas _and_ Bacchus? why the hell not) approach to Western myth in the Chronicles of Narnia fit neatly with Jung's theory of the _collective unconscious_ , a psychic repository of human mythology.
> 
> The concept that Tumnus gave Jung the red book in Narnia, and that Jung would then survive to save Kirke's life (who still had an important role to play in Narnian history, in _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ and _The Last Battle_ ), developed during the creation of the story, and has solidified as my head canon. For instance, I'm certain the painting which came to life in _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader _came from Jung's Red Book.__
> 
> The Carl Jung voice in the story is based mainly on his letters to Freud, but he (meaning me) also owes a huge debt to the Canadian author Robertson Davies, whose novels incorporated Jungian thought, most strongly expressed in the Deptford trilogy.
> 
> And I must not forget: McAvoy's ability to be hot as a faun, and Fassbender's ability to be hot as a help-I'm-losing-my-repression doctor.
> 
> The chief fandom muses are:
> 
> [Greensilver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Greensilver)'s Charles/Erik (James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender) fan video [Killing for Love](http://greensilver.dreamwidth.org/548182.html?style=light), a Sweet Charity vid created for a prompt from [Kuwdora](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kuwdora/pseuds/kuwdora). The vid has a gorgeous snow scene blending McAvoy as Tumnus and Fassbender from Centurion.
> 
> [Lostwiginity's Carl Jung and Tumnus tumblr gifs](http://fassbender-mcavoyobsessed.tumblr.com/post/18105730553/lostwiginity-itsanidiom-stewardish), which inspired several exchanges. [Mrkinch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mrkinch/pseuds/mrkinch) observed that Carl Jung/Tumnus could be "sweet and touching, or fabulously depraved," (BOTH, I cried), Lostwiginity pointed out Tumnus admits to being a bad faun, and [Eyebrowofdoom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eyebrowofdoom/pseuds/eyebrowofdoom) said "DO IT, DO IT NOW, I AM RELYING ON YOU."


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